Until They Bury My Ashes
by Lizzy Rebel
Summary: [MwuMurrue, oneshot] Natarle knows, even as she holds her breath, those eyes are not for her


_Disclaimer:_ I do not own _Gundam Seed_

**Warning:** one-sided f/f relationship

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**Until They Bury My Ashes**

Natarle knows, even as she holds her breath, those eyes are not for her.

Long, flowing mink hair cascading down a strict shirt of white. Natarle wonders what it would feel like wrapped around her fingers. She wonders what it would be like to tug it and have the slender, ample body tumble against her own.

But those things do not belong to her. The silver chain around her neck says who _she_ had belonged to and the way her eyes flow across the floor—passed the dark haired woman trying not to be noticed but wanting to be noticed all the same—tells who she will soon belong to.

Natarle wishes things could go back to the way they were. When things were simple. _Don't ask, don't tell._ She wishes things were like that. She wishes the pain, the deep ache, in her chest would go away. It is too much like high school for Natarle to stand. If it only would end.

Eyes an interesting shade, marigold liquid chipping away any ice there is around her heart. Her world of strict laws and rules and _hush-hush_ secrets melt away. All there is now is colors and sighs and breathing and warm, chocolate hair and liquid eyes staring passed her.

When she lays in her bed at night, the deep hum of machines lolling her into a false sense of security, the silence of space a blanket of darkness, Natarle sees her. Sleeping in a loose shirt and shorts that make her more woman than soldier. Human then, when she was sleeping. Natarle knows she will never be allowed to see that, that stark moment of relaxation. That one moment when war is too far away to matter. Only an ocean of covers and a sea of sheets around her. For a moment Natarle imagines being privy to that special moment, pretends she has the right to see it.

Then the image fades. _He_ is with _her_, looking at the special moment when _she_ is more woman than captain. He is the one who tangles his big, rough fingers into her hair. He is the one that lowers his head to her parted lips, feeling her sigh and mold against him.

He does not belong. That thought is always present in her mind. She feels it, the anger it brings, more than she feels the want and the love. He is too big for her, too tall. His fingers are too callous to handle the contours of her twisted, concerned heart. She needs gentleness, soft words and caresses and all he can give her is the cold, harsh reality of war. Natarle could, _would_, be soft for her.

That is what Natarle tells herself. It may not be true, but it soothes her when she is alone in her room and she knows _she_ is not. When she knows _he_ is with her. She may be too harsh and strict to ever be gentle and caring, and he may be all gentleness and compassion around her, but logic does not belong in the mind of love.

"We should have punished them for their deliberate disobedience," Natarle says. Natarle wishes that _she_ would look at the words she wasn't saying, pick part the vocabulary and find the subtext underneath. But Natarle knows she will not because she does not care about the ice heart that is suddenly beating under skin that had never before wanted to be caressed so badly.

She does not answer, instead she looks tired and sad. Natarle wants to walk over and put a hand on her shoulder in comfort, but she knows the sentiment would not be appreciated. Not from the frozen, dark combat commander who only irritates and debases her. There is a wall between them, separating them, and Natarle knows she is the one that built it.

Now she can never have what she wants. Because she is stubborn. It does not matter to Natarle that she never had anything to gain before, that it could never be hers. She wants, she _needs_, to pretend that there was a chance.

When Natarle looks into those deep, golden marigold eyes it is as if her insides are on fire. She can feel the flame lick at her gut, at her lungs, at her heart, at her throat. The silence that comes when she receives no answer is only oxygen for the fire inside her. They are close enough so that Natarle can smell her perfume, an earthy smell, vanilla and honey and milk.

The silence makes her feel like she will burst into a million pieces of iridescent light. She resists the urge to press her fingers against her cranium and hold the fragments of her skull together. She cannot stand being so close and knowing that if her thoughts slipped from her lips, _she_ would be disgusted. _She_ would hate Natarle and Natarle could not stand that.

"You have to be a captain," she says and her voice is harsh. Little emotions that don't matter when they're by themselves, but do when they're together well in her throat. They make her throat bob and her body feel like tiny explosions are being set off on her skin.

There is hurt in her eyes and Natarle wants to take it all back. _You are not a bad captain, you are the best. The best, best, best._ But she does not, she just watches.

Then _he_ comes, gliding in with that smile on his face. Natarle knows her eyes are glittering with hate and knows that he does not care. His hand slides down to the small of her back, offering her support and strength where Natarle only gives criticism and glares. _She_ leans into _him_ because she does not want Natarle.

He is the sun and she is the earth and they are circling each other, caught in each other's gravitational fields. She basks in his golden rays, arching her back like a cat. The sparks of solar flares in his eyes, the ropy muscles of his wiry build, the heat his body emanates. He smiles and takes pleasure in the quiet beauty of her earth colors. The white clouds that are her skin and the ocean that is her hair, mixed with the dirt that gives life. They are two celestial bodies circling each other.

And Natarle. Natarle is the moon. The pale, lonely moon that offers her light to the earth but knows it is not nearly as good or as kind or as wonderful as the sun's. She is caught in gravitational pull that keeps them together, but no matter how bright she shines, the earth's eyes are always on the sun's. No one notices the moon.

She finds them together, lips molding, breaths mingling, limbs twining. She is clutching his loosen military suit as if she would float away and his hand is on her hips because he is allowed to touch her there. His hand is moving up, up, to touch her breast gently. The touch has her folding against him, her body singing in the glow of love.

"Yes, yes, yes," _she_ gasps as her fingers rise to tangle in his golden hair, leg wrapping around his waist to balance herself.

"_Murrue_," he sighs against her mouth, hand cupping her chin, pressing her body against the wall. His hands tighten on her breast, making her moan in pleasure. His knee comes up to press against her legs, holding them both still.

"_Mwu_," is her answer as she folds into his arms, allowing him to pull them both away from the wall. The zero-gravity takes them up and they are floating in the air, flying, lips mating and bodies clinging. Her hair floats around them like a silky curtain of chocolate. His body wraps around her smaller one, a protective shield from the war.

"If only for a minute…" she sighs as her arms locked around his neck. "If only for a minute let's pretend it's just us."

"Just us," he agrees as he drags her back down for another kiss.

Natarle presses herself deeper into the shadows. She does not want to be seen. She will die if she is seen. They are so close together it is almost too hard to tell where she ends and he beings. Natarle feels the cracks in her heart deepen, shatter. A hand presses against her chest, against the cotton shirt in military fashion, but she does not know it is her own.

She would give anything to be him, she knows. She would give anything to be Mwu as he holds her, strokes her hair, kisses her lips. If that was all it took to have _her_ than Natarle would steal Mwu's soul and put it inside her so _she_ would have no choice but to love Natarle. It is selfish, but Natarle is selfish.

Murrue. She wants Murrue.

"Is something wrong?" Mwu asks, looking down at her with a raised eyebrow. There is a smile on his lips and Natarle brims with anger. He is so sure, so confident, that everything he wants is within his grasp.

Natarle hates him because it is true.

"No," she answers and lets it be. There can be nothing. Murrue can never be hers. She will just be another thing Natarle wants but can never have. Mwu might have an inkling to the inner her—she has seen those impossibly blue eyes when they regard her as he puts a hand on Murrue's shoulder—but he will never truly know. _Don't ask, don't tell._

She does not go down the hallways at night anymore, when everyone is sleeping. When the night stars are truly night stars. She does not want to hear the sighs and moans of lips mating and bodies twining. She thinks she will die.

So when she finds herself walking down the hallways, all but consumed with colors and feelings and sighs and she finds that it is dark and she is walking down the hallways when everyone else is sleeping she turns and walks to her room, escaping the bitter truth.

The sheets of her bed hold her in an embrace that is not human and never will be. She presses her face into the pillow and tells herself that she is not crying even as the hot tears spill onto the soft, squishy cushion. She tells herself that she does not need Murrue even when it feels like she will burst into flames without her.

_Let them have each other_, Natarle tells herself. Mwu and Murrue. _Let them be together. I don't care._ But she does and the tears are bitter with rejection and unrequited love. Her arms are heavy as they rest against her heaving chest.

Tomorrow when she wakes up she will be fine. She will walk passed Murrue and chastise her and her leniency and she will glare at Mwu because of his easy-going nature, not because he has the only thing she has ever wanted.

"Lunar Base coming up," Murrue says as Mwu leans casually against her captain's seat. For a brief a moment his hand slips down and touches hers. Murrue flushes but does not look at him even though Mwu smiles. Her chest rises and falls in her strict, no nonsense white and black military shirt and her legs are just visibly shaking in her severe white skirt.

"Will ya miss me?" he asks, his voice too soft for anyone not close enough to hear. Those that can choose to ignore him. They know Mwu La Fllaga flirts with Captain Murrue Ramius. No one thinks that it will ever be more than that.

Natarle Badgiruel knows better, but she does not say so.

"Who says we will be separated?" Murrue questions in soft reply, still not looking at him but eyes sparkling.

"We can hope we won't."

There is a sharp pain in her lip. Natarle looks down and sees that she has bitten through her reddened skin, tiny rivulets of blood rolling down to her chin. She wipes them away and turns back to her computer, not looking at the earth and the sun.

That night she strips herself of clothes and covers herself in sheets until she cannot find her way out. The silence here drowns out her thoughts of _them_, Murrue and Mwu together, and for a moment she can pretend they do not exist. Nothing exists. Only Natarle and her shivering body.

When she drifts to sleep there are no dreams. There is only inky blankness. She revels in it and does not think that Murrue and Mwu are reveling in each other. Numbness settles on her skin and she almost smiles.

She does not need love. What was it but a disease that destroys anyone who is not touched by it? Natarle is different, Natarle has always been different, love has never favored her. Now, she will not favor it.

All that matters is the war, Natarle tells herself. There will be no more colors and sighs and body limbs. There will only be the strict rules and _hush-hush_ of her secret. No one can find out. How could she forget that? All for Murrue?

She feels it slipping into her skin, her rules and her tight morals. No more colors and no more sighs. They are going away and the laws are coming back. There is only the military. There is no love. War has no room for love.

And Natarle _is_ war.

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**Word Count:** 2240

**Time:** forty-five minutes

**Beta:** none

**Couples:** Mwu/Murrue, one-sided Natarle/Murrue

**Genre:** angst/romance

**Status:** one-shot (complete)

**Author:** Lizzy Rebel

**Characters/Style:** Mwu, Natarle, Murrue angst piece

**Notes:** Just because I can. I love Natarle, Murrue, and Mwu. They're the best characters (other than Fllay, o'course) in the game. And sad, only one out of three lives. And the whole N/M/M thing is such a twisted little love triangle I couldn't resist! Don't be offended and I'm still a hardcore M/M fan. I just wanted to fool around with this! And I know that Murrue and Mwu have their first kiss after the Antarctic Battle, but I claim artist license.


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